


Masterpiece Theatre II

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Series: Masterpiece Theatre [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I'M FIXING IT, John Returns, M/M, i honestly don't know how to tag this, they are soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:27:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8636980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: John ends Mary and goes home.





	

_Hush, now, they’ll hurt you til your heart melts. They know you’re lonely and they will only break your heart. This masterpiece will tear you apart._

*4 months later*

John stood in an alleyway with his back pressed against the wall. ‘Mary’ was a few paces in front of him, fiddling with the handle of a seemingly abandoned warehouse. He waited until she entered, the door creaking with the effort, to speak. “This is it, Mycroft. It’s almost too easy. Probably is.” he said, a small smirk running through his voice.

“Do be brief.” Mycroft replies, and John felt his heart jump. He hadn’t heard those words from Mycroft in _weeks_. It was the code phrase they’d come up with to mean Sherlock was in the room. John exhaled a long breath and then spoke again.

“God, I love him. Makes sure he knows that, yeah?” He heard a grunt of affirmation, and then drew his gun from his waistband and pushed open the door, ready to fire.

‘Mary’ rounded on him, her own gun cocked and ready to fire, but her face spoke of bargaining, of conversation. When she recognized him, her arms dropped, along with her jaw, “John, how the hell? You’re dead.”

John looked down at himself, pulling briefly at his clothes, “Really? Hm, no one told me.”

“How long have you been tailing me? God, I thought I was being careful.”

“A couple months. Since my ‘death’ actually. And now, I think it’s time I finish what I started, don’t you?” He raised his gun a bit higher and cocked it, full of intent. God, he’d loved this woman once. And she’d lied to his face. There was no doubt in his mind that she knew Sherlock was alive the whole time and that she let him suffer. She knew.

“Can you actually do it? Can you shoot me? Your once loving wife. I don’t know if you have the strength to do it.” ‘Mary’ taunted, a cock sure smile on her, “You’re doing this for him. But what if you go back to him, broken and bruised, like he did to you, and he rejects you? Then what will you do?”

John smirked back at her, “I know for a fact he won’t. Because he isn’t like I was back then. Now are you done? Or do you want to beg for your life?” He squeezed the trigger slightly to show his intent. 

‘Mary’ smirk widened into more of a twisted grin, “You squeeze your trigger like you’re full of confidence, like you can actually do this, but have you forgotten? I’m the mother of your child, John. You loved me when you were hopeless. Can you seriously?”

John matched her gaze head on, “Mother of my child? You mean the child that doesn’t exist? The child that was just a figment to keep me from going to him when I should have? And loved you when I was hopeless? That’s fair, but I was always settling for you. You knew it was him I wanted. That’s why you did everything in your power to change it. I was disillusioned then, but not anymore. So yes, I can do it.”

‘Mary’s’ eyes flashed with brief terror, and with unsteady aim, pulled the trigger just as John did. He felt a burning pain in his thigh as he dropped, her own body falling in a heap, blood flowing from her chest. John, despite the pain, smiled to himself. ‘As long as I made the shot.’ He heard white noise on the end of his bluetooth, but then the connection picked up and his ear was filled with Mycroft’s voice.

“Dr. Watson? John? John, are you there? What happened?” There was worry in his voice, but John knew it wasn’t for him, but for Sherlock, and that didn’t necessarily hurt all that much.

“I got her, Mycroft. But she got me too.” 

“Where? Where did she get you?”

John lifted the hand that had been keeping most of the blood inside him to gauge the situation, and was met with spurts of blood. He laughed humorlessly, “Femoral artery. Good shot for not being aimed, I’ll give her that. How far out are your people?”

There was a brief tapping before there was an answer, “Approximately seven minutes. Just keep pressure on your wound and we’ll have you home before you know it. Just keep pressure--”

“Mycroft,” John interrupted, “I’m a doctor, I think I’m capable of blocking a wound.” So that’s what he did, until his eyesight began to blur and his head began to spin. He didn’t know how long he had been laying on the cold concrete, but he had blacked out before Mycroft’s men were there to get him out.

***

Mycroft ascended the steps to 221B slowly and carefully, knowing full well he would find Sherlock in his usual bundle in John’s chair, unwilling to look at anyone or anything. “Brother mine?” he asked cautiously. Sherlock shifted minutely but didn’t turn to face him.

“Unless you’ve come to tell me John’s been found, I don’t care. And if it isn’t that, then get out.” His voice was hoarse from disuse, and his shoulders were slumped.

Mycroft hesitated, “Sherlock, John’s been found. He’s at Bart’s for a wound in his leg. I’ve come to take you to him. Will you come?” 

Sherlock stood quickly and rounded on him, “What kind of question is that? Let’s go. Right now.” His Belstaff was on and he was down the stairs before Mycroft could respond. And, of course, Mycroft followed.

Sherlock was keyed up the entire ride to the hospital, and nearly shot out of the car like a bullet. He was close to monstrous when Mycroft joined him, “Where is he? Where is John Watson?” His hands were gripping the reception desk and his head was bowed. The woman behind the desk looked at Mycroft and he nodded. She pointed down the hall, “Third door on the left, Mr. Holmes.” He sped off, coat billowing behind him like some sort of cape.

***

When Sherlock reached the room and found John in the bed, awake, but attached to monitors and fluids, he couldn’t help but collapsed to his knees at his side and hold tight to his hand, kissing the knuckles repeatedly, feeling his pulse point even though he could hear it from the monitor. John moved his hand slightly to cup his jaw and Sherlock caught his palm with a kiss as it passed. His fingers still gripped the pulse point and his heart was still full of fear. John smiled somewhat drunkenly at his and said, “S’alright, love, s’alright. I’m right here, I’m right here.”

Sherlock’s throat worked around words, unsure whether to throw brimstone or flower petals, whether to spew the rage he’s been choking on for the past four months, or tell John that he loves him too much to care. In the end, all he can manage to say is his name. “John.” He breaks into a million tiny pieces in the palm of John’s hand and he clings tight to the wrist that’s settled against his face.

John’s fingers found their way into his hair, soothing, a feeling he had missed for what felt like eternity, and he relaxed, but only slightly. “Go ahead, sweetheart. You can yell at me. I deserve it.”

Sherlock let his mind work for another moment, closed his eyes, and spoke, “How could you do this to me? To us? What if I hadn’t accepted it? What if I had responded the way you did? What if I wasn’t kneeling on this floor right now and had refused to see you, at all? What then?” He looked up at John through lowered lids, somewhat apprehensive.

John’s look, not full of rage as expected, was soft. Fond. “I would’ve beaten down that door and your walls yet again. I would’ve done everything in my power to fix what I had done. I know I was bad when you came back, but I forgave you. I know you would me too, but it’s warranted, I know. You can keep going, if you like.”

“I was so angry with you for so long. I wanted to hate you for doing this to me. I wanted it all to stop. I believed you were dead until I remembered what you’d said.”

John cocked his head to the side, “What do you mean?”

“‘ _I don’t mean it. Any of it._ ’ Because you didn’t. You said that first, and you didn’t mean any of what you said after it. I knew everything I heard heard and seen had been a lie. And I’m ever grateful. Because these last four months mean nothing compared to how much I love you. I love you more than words can say. Because all of this meant nothing. And I guess I would live it all over again if it meant that I would get to live the rest of my life with you.”

John sat up as much as he could and opened his arms, “Come here, love.” and Sherlock did, sitting on the end of the hospital bed, his head tucked under John’s chin, his arms tightened around John’s waist. “I’m so sorry, but we’ll fix it together, yeah?”

Sherlock clung a bit tighter and nodded, hoping his silence spoke the volumes he meant for it to.


End file.
